


Unfurl

by Perfica



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-08 08:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17977688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfica/pseuds/Perfica
Summary: In the end, it was the way the others behaved around her that gave away her secret.





	1. Arrive

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Misuse the ‘PROFIT!!!’ meme.  
> 2\. Be the author of over 100 slash fics.  
> 3\. Don’t write anything for six years.  
> 4\. Watch most popular TV show in the world.  
> 5\. Casually surf tags of said TV show on AO3.  
> 6\. Become obsessed with het pairing.  
> 7\. Start writing multi-chapter fic about said pairing.  
> 8\. ???  
> 9\. PROFIT!!!
> 
> I've posted two chapters today to let you get a feel for it but can't promise I'll do this all the time. Future chapters are outlined and ideas are jumping off the page at me. More tags may be added in the future as the story develops but I promise that all allusions to violence are from the past and all sexy scenes are happening in the now :)
> 
> Unbeta’d so if you pick up anything weird, please let me know. Actually, let me know what you think anyway. It's been a long time since I've written anything so all thoughts are appreciated!
> 
> ~Ω~Ω~Ω~
> 
> _Set in an alternative reality where all characters are over eighteen._
> 
> ~Ω~Ω~Ω~  
> 

They arrived at White Harbor with sails unfurled and the two dragons screeching above their heads. The port was lined with hundreds of gawking smallfolk and dozens of knights with the sigil of House Manderly emblazoned on their chests. It took almost half a day to get everyone and everything onto dry land - the blank-eyed Unsullied that walked with a steady metronomic pace regardless of whether they were on dry land or the sea; the loud Dothraki and their horses that rolled their eyes and reared up on their back legs in jubilation at the distant smell of fresh water and green grass; the former slaves and dusty stragglers and sleeveless merchants and all and sundry of the nameless, faceless human flotsam and jetsam that the Dragon Queen had gathered on the way - gathered during her travels and gathered in her all-encompassing reach of being the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, the Protector of the Realm, the Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons.

As she had gathered up Robert Baratheon’s bastard blacksmith son. And gathered up the Imp, although he thought perhaps that Tyrion Lannister had thrown himself at the Targaryen Queen the first chance he got. And gathered up Jorah Mormont whose mournful eyes followed every movement his Khaleesi made. And gathered up the Onion Knight who seemed to be one of the few honourable men left in the world. And gathered up Ned Stark’s bastard son, Jon Snow, the King in the North, the man he had followed beyond the Wall and down to King’s Landing and up to White Harbor. 

And gathered up he himself.

Sandor Clegane strode down the ship’s gangway, stepped off the docks and placed his feet firmly onto the dull grey stones of the city street.

He was headed north.

He was going to Winterfell.


	2. Conquer

She made time every morning to walk up the stairs to the highest point on the wall. From there, she could see the people of Winterfell at work; rugged soldiers with their winter beards bristling from their cheeks go through their paces at training, women with side braids and hair that flowed as freely around their faces as their sensible skirts did around their ankles briskly walking to and fro carrying baskets and bottles from larders to kitchen, their children chasing each other around the posts and between moving carts filled to the brim with large bushels of wheat and barley, the neighs of horses reaching her ears as they were curried and saddled, eager to stretch their legs in the surrounding fields.

It made her happy to see their people at home and at work. Everyone had a job and every job was important. The lords and men that had pledged allegiance to Jon and who had watched as she, Arya and Bran had delivered their father’s justice to Littlefinger had left, making haste back to their own homes to prepare for what was coming. She knew they didn’t truly believe the reports that had been sent to them but they believed in their king and they believed in the words of the Stark children. They would have to return sooner rather than later to discuss their future plans but everyone was taking advantage of the calm before the storm.

“My lady?”

Sansa turned and saw her handmaiden bob up and down.

“Tila, I’ve told you, if you’re going to curtsey every time you speak to me, you’re going to have very sore legs.”

The side of Tila’s mouth crept up momentarily. She was from Crofter’s Village, recently to Winterfell after her husband and children had been struck down by redspots. Tila herself had been unharmed and devoted herself to taking care of her family but, for all her hard work, they were lost to her. She seldom smiled and they’d never heard her laugh but she was a good, strong woman of the North and did for both Sansa and Arya with ruthless efficiency. She’d arrived at Winterfell hoping for a chance to work in their laundries. Sansa had met her, as she met with all who came to their gates seeking shelter and, feeling for the woman who had lost everyone in the world that she loved, offered her a position in the household. 

Tila didn’t know the first thing about being a proper handmaiden but Sansa and Arya had both outgrown the need for one. Sansa brushed her own hair and Arya chose her own clothes. Tila drew their baths and made sure there was ample kindling for their fire places, brought them warm drinks and changed their sheets. On particularly cold nights the three of them would sit by the fire in the Great Hall; Sansa and Tila sewing or knitting, Arya sharpening her various knives and her precious Needle. She didn’t say much but Sansa was glad that Tila sat with them. She knew what it was to be alone in a strange house, with no family or friends, with no chance of a kind word.

She shook her head to rid herself of those memories. “Never mind. What is it, Tila?”

“The maester says a raven has come for you. He’s coming to meet you.”

“Tell him there’s no need,” Sansa said, casting one last look to the horizon. “I’m coming down.”

As Sansa made her way down the stairs with Tila close behind, she turned a corner and a young bannerman, not looking where he was going and in a rush to get to his station, crashed into her.

“My lady!” he said, reaching out, grabbing her by the upper arm to break her fall. “My apologies, I didn’t - “

“Don’t touch me,” Sansa screamed, her voice echoing off the stones around them. She pulled herself back and placed the palms of her hands against the wall behind her, pressing into its strength. She knew her chest was heaving and that her breath was quick and loud. “I’m…sorry. I just mean - , you startled me.”

The bannerman’s face dropped and he stepped away, ashamed. “My lady, I’m truly sorry.”

“No harm done,” Tila said, stepping between he and Sansa. “You scared the life out of me, you did. Sacred me so much I couldn’t make a peep, could I! But our lady could, couldn’t she? She was deep in thought and you jumped out of nowhere, a big strong man such as yourself moving as fleet-footed as a winter wolf.”

The bannerman, who was lucky to have had eighteen name days and was as slender as a stalk of hay, nodded his head furiously and continued to stammer his apologies.

“There now, off you go, no harm done,” Tila said, shooing him up the stairs. “Don’t want to be late, do you?”

Tila watched him race away while Sansa slowed down her breathing. Bright spots floated before her eyes and she could feel a clammy coldness on her forehead.

“It’s alright,” Tila said. “There’s no one here but you and me. He’s gone and he won’t be coming back. It’s alright. You’re fine now.”

Sansa listened to Tila, hearing her repeat the words in a voice that was regular and lilting. They had never spoken of it but she knew that Tilia knew, knew what had happened to her, knew what made her jump and pull away at the briefest of contact with another person.

Tila had sad, knowing eyes and she made sure to only touch Sansa when she knew Sansa was ready for it.

“Alright now?” Tila asked, minutes later as Sansa pushed away from the wall. She looked down at her palms and saw red indentations from where she’d pressed them against the stones. She straightened her back and raised her head. She was the Lady of Winterfell. She was in her own house and nothing could scare her here.

She nodded.

Tila fell behind her again and they made their way to the maester.


	3. Recollect

It took them a sennight to get to Winterfell. Snow and his Queen had insisted on travelling as far and as fast as possible each day. Those that had to walk and their attendant guards would reach their destination by the time of the new moon but the smaller party that traveled on horseback kept a punishing pace. 

He was one of the lucky ones chosen to ride; Snow had insisted that the Westerosi of the group be with him on this final part of their journey so they could speak of what they knew and help convince the stubborn Northmen of the dangers that would soon be upon them. 

They had found him a horse suited to his size, a huge seal-brown beast named Vorsa. The softly-spoken Missandei had let him know that its name in Dothraki meant ‘Fire’ and he had growled under his breath and then laughed. The Dothraki were fierce fuckers and he didn’t begrudge them their joke. In a way, he was pleased that they looked him squarely in the face and recognised the scars for what they were, a burden and a reality. A reminder of what he had been through and a testimony to the fact that he absolutely didn’t give two shits about what a bunch of strangers thought of his face.

He had, once. Cared about what someone thought of his face. But she wasn’t a stranger. And, after a time, she didn’t seem to care about his scars. She had looked at him, even when he hadn’t demanded that she do so. 

She had touched that side of his face, once. A long time ago, in a dark room filled with the stench of burning men and the sound of wildfire eating away solid stone and the green hellish light of the sea on fire, she had touched his face. And sang him a song. And let him slip away.

No, she hadn’t let him slip away. He had left her behind.

And now he was to see her again.


	4. Assemble

She found them both in the Godswood. Bran’s rolling chair was to the side and he was sitting on the ground with his back propped up against a weirwood, watching Arya as she dipped and whirled, dipped and whirled, stabbed and danced and struck against an imaginary enemy. His gaze, clear and bright, caught her eye as she stepped delicately through the snow and lowered herself by his side. Their furs overlapped but they did not touch.

“She’s very good, isn’t she,” he said, smiling towards Arya. “Much better than I would have ever been.”

“She is,” Sansa agreed, then raised her voice so she could be heard above Arya’s measured panting. “But don’t say it too often or she’ll grow a large head.”

Arya laughed and, with a final spin, finished in a flurry that had her down on one knee with the tip of her sword pointed squarely at Sansa’s face.

“Careful, sister dear,” she said. “Don’t you know I’m a formidable killer? Aren’t you scared of what I might do to you?”

Sansa snorted and batted the tip of Needle away. “The only time you scare me these days is when you’ve had too many cups of wine at dinner and try to lead the men in song.”

Arya laughed and sheathed her weapon while Bran smiled. It felt good to be in their presence: here, in the Godswood, near the Heart Tree, surrounded by their Old Gods. Their pack had survived and, no matter what path they had travelled to return, no matter how different they all were now from their younger selves, they were alive and at Winterfell. The remaining Starks had returned. All except one.

“The ravens have delivered a scroll,” she said, pulling the small piece of parchment from her pocket and unfurling it. 

“Let me guess,” Arya said, waving an open palm around in the air and crossing her eyes. “I see…news from Barrowton. A portly man comes this way. He has mutton-chop whiskers and groans as he steps down from his cart. He will be delivering…salted pork, sour cherries and almonds for our cakes.”

Bran rolled his eyes and slapped Arya’s thigh. “It’s not respectful to make fun of the Three-Eyed Raven, you know.”

“I’m not making fun of the Three-Eyed Raven, I’m making fun of my brother, Brandon Stark. That’s still allowed, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward to take her hand. He reached out with his other hand and held it towards Sansa, making slow, deliberate movements. She stared at it, that long white hand, so similar to her own, stretched out to her, waiting patiently in midair. Her siblings were looking at her and Sansa felt herself begin to tense.

“It’s alright,” she thought to herself. “They’re your family. They will never hurt you.”

She licked her lower lip and saw her hand move as if she had no control over it. Her fingertips touched Bran’s palm and he smiled, giving them a tiny squeeze. A breath of air rushed out of her lungs and she began to feel her shoulders relax. It was fine. This was fine. It was only a touch. He wouldn’t hurt her.

Bran cleared his throat and looked away. “I am both and I’ll allow it. What does the scroll say, Sansa?”

“Are you sure you don’t already know?” she asked, taking her hand back, thankful that the moment had passed and she was able to join in on the light teasing. She suspected he did but read it aloud anyway, for Arya’s benefit. “Kings Landing a place of forked tongues. White Harbor still smells of rotting lampreys. I bring the Queen and our sworn men home to Winterfell.”

“He’s coming home,” Arya said, wistfully. “I’ve missed him so much. I never thought I’d have the chance to…”

Sansa felt her own throat tighten in sympathy as Arya’s voice broke. “He loves you so much. Love us all, so much.” 

She and Bran ignored the fact that Arya’s eyes had welled with tears. She was still their younger sister but she was now something more. Growing up she had worn her heart on her sleeve and absolutely no one in Winterfell had ever been in any doubt of what she was feeling, whether it was appropriate for a lady of her stature or not. These days she clothed herself in a suit of sarcasm and surliness. Sansa understood the sentiment; she was wary too, but she rejoiced in the brief moments since their reunion for the Arya they knew from days past to appear. 

Sansa made a conscious decision to extend herself, to try something she was afraid to do. If she couldn’t trust Bran and Arya, who could she trust? 

She got on her knees and, very carefully, lowered her head towards Bran, kissing him lightly on the forehead. He smiled, pleased. She leant over him and put her hand on Arya’s shoulder, drawing her near. Arya allowed it and only half-smirked when she, too, had a kiss placed gently on her forehead.

Bran’s eyes took on that faraway look that sometimes came over him, less, thankfully, these days. “The lone wolf dies,” he said.

And she and Arya spoke together. “But the pack survives.”


	5. Hasten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor continues to brood like a big brooding brooder but finally, he speaks!

He pulled Vorsa to a standstill at the crest of a hill and looked down upon Winterfell. From this distance, the shape of direwolves could be seen on the banners that thrashed briskly in the breeze from every corner of the castle. Tyrion stopped next to him, eyes squinting as he took in the small figures that moved around its gates.

“Burnt, bashed but still standing,” Tyrion said, an almost admiring tone in his voice. “You’ve got to hand it to these Northerners - they don’t give up.”

“Did you expect them to?” Sandor asked, grimacing. “You saw what happened after Stark lost his head. You know their words - the North remembers. Seems like they have a memory almost as long as their house history.” He turned his head and spat on the ground. “Piss on Bolton. Piss on his house. Fuckers got what they deserved.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Tyrion replied, shifting in his saddle and steadying his mount as it ducked its head forward to eat the grass at its feet. “And with the help of hounds, to boot. Seems my wife has a vengeful streak.”

“Your wife,” he said, feeling his face contort, feeling his spine straighten. “She was no wife of yours, Imp.”

“As much as you, and many others would like to deny it,” Tyrion said, a ridiculous smirk stretching his ridiculous lips, “we were married in the eyes of the Seven and thus she and I - “

“She and you are nothing,” Jon Snow said from Tyrion’s other side. His jaw was clenched as tight as his fists. “And she and Ramsey Bolton were nothing. Keep that in mind before you start wagging your tongue in front of my sister or I’ll mind it for you.”

The mischievous light that had been shining in Tyrion’s eyes dimmed. “Snow, I was only riling up the Hound. He pulls the most delightful faces when he’s angry. You know as well as I that the farce of a marriage between myself and Sansa was wanted by neither of us and unconsummated - ”

“Lady Sansa,” he said, dragging up a voice from the depths of his chest that sounded like a blade being sharpened by stone. “She is the Lady Sansa.”

“Aye, she is the Lady Sansa,” Jon said emphatically, nodding his way. “She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell and she will be to the last of her days, if she wishes it. My sister will never be forced to marry again. Nor will Arya. Neither of them will be bargained away like cattle or forced to leave their home. Not while I have a breath in my body.”

“Nor while I have one in mine,” Sandor said. He had done his best to protect them both in his own pathetic way and, whilst he’d appeared to have succeeded more with the she-bitch than her older sister, his many failings weighed heavily on his mind, no matter how many trees he’d felled for Brother Ray, no matter how many leagues he’d walked with the bloody Brotherhood Without Banners, no matter how many times he’d stared out into the ocean and watched white-capped waves crash against the ship that brought them here.

He didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going but ultimately, he knew he had to be here. Regardless of what was to happen once he arrived at Winterfell, the undead had risen and he would use his strength and his wits to take down as many of them as possible before he died. 

He would make his stand by the side of Jon Snow who would wield Longclaw with savage mastery. And with the brawny and foolhardy Gendry brandishing his warhammer in huge, smashing arcs. With that crazy fucker Tormund laughing in his ear and Dondarrion waving his gods-forsaken flaming sword, if they managed to escape from the Wall. With the Targaryen Queen and her horrible children spitting heat and light and death into the hordes. And maybe even with the little she-wolf, spinning around with her stupid water-dancing and brandishing her stupid little Needle. He felt one side of his mouth tip up, felt the smooth skin stretch. It would be good to see her again, even if she had stolen the last of his coins and left him for dead. 

He did not think about her sister and her blue trusting eyes. He refused to wonder about what she would say when she saw him, if she would speak to him at all. He wouldn’t think about what she might look like now; if her hair still carried the same auburn sheen, if she moved with a woman’s curving grace. And wouldn’t speculate on how badly she’d been hurt. Or if she remembered him. Or if she hated him.

The sound of a horn being blown carried on the wind. Rows of archers appeared between the battlements of the outer wall.

A fresh gust of frosty wind buffeted Vorsa and the scarred skin near Sandor’s temple felt tight and stiff. Both he and his horse grew impatient.

“Come,” Snow said, leaning forward in his seat. “I’m home and I want to see my family.”


	6. Expunge

Sansa stood to the left of Bran in the courtyard, her hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. Arya, to his right, had her fingers wrapped around Needle’s pommel, ready to pull it out and slash with maximum efficiency if the need arose. Soldiers and smallfolk lined the sides of the space and peered curiously from the verandas. Their King was returning.

And he did, with much noise and speed. The hooves of the horses struck up snow and powdery dirt beneath them as they processed through the gates.

Jon pulled his horse to a standstill the moment he saw the three of them lined up and threw himself from the saddle, racing towards them. He was met by an Arya who had fairly flung herself towards him the second she had locked her eyes on him. He fell to his knees and opened his arms to her, calling her name. Arya, in turn, had leapt at him from five steps away, clutched at his shoulders, wound her fingers through his curls and screamed his name into his neck. He held her to his chest with brutal strength and his choked laughter could be heard above the sound of the twenty or so other riders as they dismounted. Neither he nor Arya paid any attention - they were unfazed with the possibility of being stomped by horses or crowded by people - they existed only for each other in that moment.

Sansa clutched her hands tightly together. She was so glad to have him back at Winterfell. She was overwhelmed by the number of strangers that had arrived. She was hesitant to approach the Targaryen Queen.

But she did. She would not fail the North now.

She pressed a hand briefly to Bran’s shoulder and stepped forward a few paces, gathered the edges of her skirts and sank down in a graceful curtsey. She would not bend the knee but she would show courtesy.

“Your Grace,” she said, eyes lowered, staring at the strange white riding boots adorning the lady’s feet.

“You are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targareyn,” a confident voice said from the side. “Rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful queen of - “

“Missandei,” the Targareyn said, placing a gentle hand on the forearm of the woman speaking. “This is Jon’s sister. We do not need such formalities between us. Rise, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa did and took her first good look at the women before her. Daenerys was short, lithe, her eyes and hair were peculiar colours and, when she smiled, her lips were slashes across her pale face. She returned Sansa’s stare with a reciprocal interest and inclined her head. She then slipped her hand around the other woman’s elbow with a practiced ease and drew her forward. “Lady Sansa, allow me to introduce to you Missandei, my most trusted advisor, my closest friend and confidante. Missandei, I present to you the Lady Sansa of House Stark, lady of Winterfell and sister of Jon Snow, the King in the North.” Missandei’s smile was kind, her eyes warm and she nodded her hello. Missandei was taller than the Targareyn but still shorter than Sansa. She had found that most women were.

“Please, call me Sansa,” she said, becoming overwhelmed with the names and titles being bandied about. There was still so many people around and she had a sudden longing for the silence that could only be found in the crypts. She turned and gestured behind her. “My brother, Brandon Stark.”

“I’m sorry I cannot bow before such ladies of worth,” Bran said, his hands resting comfortably on top of the furs piled on his lap.

“Jon has told me of what you have endured,” the Targareyn said. “I give you my word that the wrongs committed against you shall be avenged. Both of you,” she added, gazing up at Sansa.

“No, I - “ Sansa said, a hysterical bubble of laughter rising in her throat. “I have no need for vengeance. I am fine. It is the North that needs - , I don’t need - “ She started to back away, aware that she was about to cause a scene but unable to quell the fear that was making her legs shake, that was making her spine want to curl inwards so she could turn herself into a tiny invisible ball.

“Hush, my dear,” the Targareyn Queen said, standing to one side of Sansa, close but not touching. Missandei stepped to her other side, her eyes filling with tears as she bit her lower lip. “Hush, Sansa. You are amongst friends. I will never hurt you. We will never hurt you nor will we allow anyone to hurt you again. Believe me when I say, I know, _we_ know, what it is to be a woman of this age. What it is to be brutalised, cast aside, forgotten. What it is to have your love and protector leave you and have to carry on without him. What it feels like to be used as a plaything for men that are not worthy of licking your boots.

“But I tell you this,” she continued, her eyes flashing with anger and pain not soon forgotten. “I swear this to you. That time has come to an end. We will not be put aside. We will not be forgotten. We will rise, stronger and better for it. The world will not soon forget us.”

“You too?” Sansa asked, eyes flickering between the two women.

Missandei nodded. “I was five years old when I was taken from my home and enslaved. I was too young to understand what was happening but I remember my village burning and the way I was chained and sold off at Slaver’s Bay. I remember the face of the man who took me after I flowered. He was the first of many who sought to possess me. But I do not think of them now. Instead, I think of my last, the one I have chosen, the one I freely give myself to.” She smiled widely and grasped the hand of the Queen. “She has given me this. My Queen, who I choose to follow, gave me the ability to choose my fate from the moment she freed me. I would endure all of it again to be able to live my life the way I wish.”

Sansa couldn’t help the whimper that escaped from her throat. To have such inner strength, to have such confidence, to have such choice…that is what she wished for in the depths of her heart.

“We will talk of this further, if you wish,” the Targareyn Queen said, holding out her hand to Sansa. “I have had Missandei to talk to but you, my poor thing, you have had no one, have you?”

It was true. As little as she had told Bran and Arya and as much as they had surmised, no one truly knew what Sansa had gone through. What she had endured with Littlefinger and Ramsey. She wasn’t sure if it was shame that held her tongue or the desire to put it all behind her. She didn’t know if she was ready to speak freely but the temptation to excise the poison from her mind and soul was a heady one.

Perhaps they did understand. Perhaps she could speak to them.

Sansa took the Targareyn’s hand in hers and gripped it tightly, palm to palm. “Thank you, Your Grace. I would like that.”

“Call me Daenerys,” she said. “We are all sisters, here.”


	7. Affirm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was so long I contemplated breaking it up into separate chapters but then I'd be changing the 'one POV per chapter' thing I've got going on so...
> 
> For those of you that have been desperately waiting for Sansa and Sandor's first meeting (as have I! Trust me, I'm trying to get these two together as quickly as possible), be assured that it is coming. Who's going to break first? Where will they meet? What will they say to each other? URGH! All your questions will be answered in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that's been leaving kudos (<3's to all the lurkers!), hitting up the page and leaving comments - I very much appreciate your investment in the story so far and hope it continues to interest/excite you.
> 
> ~Ω~Ω~Ω~

From his position at the back of the troop, Sandor could see the groups of people milling about the edges, close but not close enough to spoil the reunions. 

His height was a curse as it was difficult to hide when you towered over everyone around you. Luckily he and the others were still covered in heavy furs and no one looked at him sideways, particularly as he wasn’t the only one to have a hood atop his head and a thick piece of wool wrapped around his nose and mouth to protect as much of his face as possible from the biting wind.

His height was a blessing since it afforded him his first clear view of her. She was stood with the Queen and her confidante, the three women clutching hands and standing at the points of an invisible triangle. Whatever they were saying seemed serious; all he could see were the tops of their blonde, brown and red heads but the mood soon lifted when they laughed and broke apart.

The boy in the chair said something to them and gestured towards the large doors behind him. With a quick look over her shoulder to check on Snow and Arya, the little bird led them away and they disappeared with a flutter of fabric. 

Sandor remembered the sadness and helplessness felt by the Stark family when one of their sons had been found near death at the bottom of a tower and knew the boy in the chair to be Bran. He was a lord - he made his needs known with quiet authority. How he’d survived all that had happened since, Sandor didn’t know. 

Bran looked upon Jon and the she-wolf talking animately with each other then his eyes swung Sandor’s way. 

He had been seen, there was no denying it. Those eyes stared into his unflinchingly and he felt his lip snarl. He had been seen and was being judged. He had the sensation of being broken down into parts, as if his soul was being examined as casually as if the little lord was flicking through an interesting book. He wondered if he had been found wanting.

That queer gaze skipped away after what felt like an eternity when Snow knelt by Bran’s side and placed careful hands on his shoulders. Snow spoke joyously and Bran listened, smiling as he was enveloped in a fierce hug that he reciprocated with equal emotion. A tubby maester appeared by their side and he, too, was the recipient of one of Snow’s hugs. Either the two men were well-known to each other or Snow was a benevolent sort of king. Sandor snorted as he tried to imagine King Robert or Joffrey showing such regard for any in their retinue.

After much discussion the maester pushed the boy back into the warmth of the castle and Snow began giving directions to a team of household staff that were gathered around him, listening intently. Good. Maybe they’d finally get out of the wind and get something to eat. He was cold, hungry…fuck it, he was weary all ‘round and wanted a chance to be clean, warm and full before collapsing into a heap somewhere quiet. Just for a little while. Just to get his bearings.

And then he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. He looked down and saw a thin silver sword pointed at his chest. Of course she had seen him. He pulled the scarf away from his face. No use pretending. She would know him anywhere.

“I still remember where the heart is,” Arya said.

He grimaced, not wanting anyone to see how happy he was that she was here, that she was alive. That she had remembered what he’d taught her.

“Aye, that you do. Going to do something with that little toothpick of yours? Finish the job, this time?”

“Maybe I will,” she said, frowning. The point of the sword dug into his furs a fraction more; he saw her feet move to compensate for the extra reach. Good. Whatever she’d been up to, she’d been learning.

He leaned forward into her sword and put on his most fearsome face. He felt the pull of the scars near his mouth, knew that they were stretched taut and smooth by his wide-eyed glare. Her eyes widened as the tip of the sword sunk in deeper. Around them, all conversations came to a halt. Someone moved in their direction but were stopped by Jon’s hand.

“I’ll give you one try, girl,” he growled. "Kill me and you’ll never see my ugly face again. But if I live, I’ll break both your hands.”

His voice sounded loud in the stillness surrounding them and he had no doubt that every single person in the courtyard had heard what he had said.

And then her teeth appeared as her lips quirked upwards. He blinked and allowed his face to relax into a smirk. She snorted and, with that sound, time seemed to restart.

She put her stupid little sword into its scabbard and laughed out loud. He chuckled and then joined her in her laughter, both of them leaning over their knees, both of them sounding just a little bit hysterical.

~Ω~Ω~Ω~

Snow led he and the others to a large set of rooms nestled in a corner against a far wall. It was dark and damp with the sound of running water echoing off cavernous walls. A fat man at the doorway took one look at them then started yelling over his shoulder. A trio of boys ran about at his command, gathering bathing and grooming equipment from a series of wooden shelves that bordered the antechamber.

It took but a second for them to strip themselves of their filthy clothes and wade into the depths of baths. Sandor wasn’t the only one to groan in appreciation of the water’s warmth as he sunk down onto a ledge. The trio of boys handed them scrubbing brushes and chunks of milky white soap, gathered the rotting piles of clothing into their arms and scurried off to find decent attire for the bathers.

Snow conversed with the fat man as he splashed water onto his face and chest, Tyrion listening and interjecting occasionally between scrubbing between his toes. Gendry lounged with his feet floating, eyes closed and a small smile on his face. Seaworth marvelled at the luxury of so much clean water and speculated as to how it was kept hot. Sandor took a deep breath and sunk below the water line. He ran his fingers through the mess of his hair and beard then curled forward into a ball, rubbing the back of his neck. He arose gasping and was so pleased with the feeling of months of grit being sloughed from his skin that he sunk again.

By the time they had scrubbed themselves clean the boys had returned with armfuls of clean clothes. The fat man trimmed Snow’s hair and tidied up his beard with a long silver blade. Sandor sat down on the chair next and waited as the fat man stared at him frankly. 

“This beard,” the fat man said, fingertips poking its ends. “How much of it do you want to keep? It’s cold up here in the North but it’s growing wild.”

“I’m no Wildling,” Sandor said, leaning back and closing his eyes. If the fat man could be trusted to shear the King in the North, then he could be trusted to hold a sharp blade near Sandor’s throat. “Trim it, cut my hair, do what the fuck you want.”

At the touch to his chin he bared his throat to the fat man. 

“Make me presentable,” Sandor said, then snorted. “Make me fit for a lady.”

~Ω~Ω~Ω~

Once they were cleaned up Snow led them to the Great Hall which was packed with bannerman and small folk. They seated themselves at an empty table and Snow patted Seaworth on the shoulder, telling them all that he and the Imp would return shortly.

A group of musicians played merry tunes from the corner and servants scurried in between trestle tables, the muscles in their arms bulging as they lugged platters of food and tankards of drink from the kitchen to the waiting throngs. The smell of dripping meat fat, roasted vegetables and hot loaves pervaded the large hall and, around them, people were talking and laughing and yelling excitedly to each other.

She came to find him as he was furiously stuffing his face. Mormont nodded deferentially and slid over, making room for her to slip onto the bench beside him.

Sandor gave her a brief look but didn’t pause in his feasting. None of them did; they were starving and there was little time for conversation. Seaworth poured another cup of ale down his throat, Gendry looked at Arya wide-eyed but continued to shovel potatoes into his mouth. Sandor grunted, took another swig of wine and pulled a platter of goose over their way. She ripped off a leg with her bare hands and bit into it, eating as voraciously as the men.

After she’d eaten her fill she poured herself a drink, staring at Sandor with her quicksilver-coloured eyes.

“See something you like?” he asked, tearing apart a loaf and offering her a chunk. She shook her head, declining both the bread and his attempt at baiting her.

“Why are you down here with us commoners?” he said. At that, Gendry’s eyes shot their way. “Shouldn’t you be with your family, up above the salt?”

She turned up her little nose at that. “They’re coming soon. I thought I’d come see that you’ve all settled in.”

Sandor laughed, a genuinely happy sound that seemed to confuse the others at the table. “Why the fuck would you care about that? What will you do to make sure we’ve ‘settled in’, huh? Going to offer to tuck me in tonight, little wolf?”

“You’re such a pig,” Arya said, punching him in the ribs. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you.”

Seaworth smiled and complimented Arya on their hospitable welcome, saying he’d heard much about her from Jon and that he looked forward to seeing her train. Mormont spoke of the fighting women of Bear Island and the three of them spoke about sparring, weaponry and a whole bunch of other horse shit that would mean absolutely nothing when it came to the fight against the dead. Gendry and Arya continued to sneak moon-eyed glances at each other while Sandor drained another cup of wine and looked to the front of the Hall for what felt the thousandth time. Where were they? Why was it taking so long for them to join the feast? Would she look for him? Would she speak to him?

There was a loud crash from behind them as a large serving platter fell to the floor. Three seconds later Sandor realised that he had twisted in his seat and thrown his arm across Arya’s chest, pushing her back behind him. A knife was in his other hand and was pointed in the direction of noise. The she-wolf was up on her knees, her right hand resting on his shoulder, ready to press off. In her left hand she brandished the bone of the goose’s leg.

“Good reflexes,” Sandor said, sheathing his knife and turning to face the table again. “Shit weapon.”

“It was the closest thing to hand,” Arya said, ignoring the looks from the people surrounding them. “I bet I still could have done some damage.”

“I’m sure you could have,” Seaworth said, eyes watering as he tried to stop his laughter. “I see the Lady is always prepared.”

“I’m not a lady,” Arya shot back, throwing another look in Gendry’s direction.

“But you are,” Gendry said, finally speaking. “You’re one of the ladies of Winterfell. Even if you don’t act like it.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sandor muttered as Arya’s eyes lit up. Gendry’s mouth twisted into a little smile and Sandor wished that he was drunk and away from the two of them. 

Dumb fucks. Young and in love and dumb as fuck. He wondered how long it would take the wolf-bitch to lead the blacksmith into her bed. Not long, probably. They all knew what was coming for them.

“Hey,” Arya said, pushing aside his hair and tugging at his collar. “Your scar healed up nicely.”

“It was sewn crooked,” he said, swatting at her hand as if she were an annoying fly.

“Oh, what a shame,” she mocked. “If only it were straight so as not to detract from your great beauty.”

“I’ll show you a great beauty,” he said, grabbing himself between the legs, ignoring Seaworth’s wide-eyed stare, Mormont’s furrowed brow, Gendry’s grit teeth. Fuck ‘em. Didn’t they know what it was like between he and the little she-bitch?

She snorted. “I’ve seen enough of your cock to last me a lifetime, trust me. And if you wanted something sewn properly, you should have got my sister to do it.”

“I would if I could have,” he growled. “Grown any teats yet? Last I remember, it looked like you’d been bitten on the chest by midges.”

“Oh, shut up,” Arya said, not in the least perturbed. She then registered the looks of the men around them. “Oh, shut _up_. It’s not like that, don’t make me vomit. Do you know how many months we travelled together? We did bathe, you know. And I didn’t give enough of a damn about him to go hide behind a tree just because I needed to get changed from one filthy tunic into another slightly less filthy tunic.”

“And I didn’t give a shit if she saw me bare-assed. Still don’t. Now stop staring at me like I’ve done something wrong before I punch your eyes into the back of your head,” Sandor said, looking pointedly at Gendry.

There was a commotion from the front of the Great Hall as Snow entered, leading Daenerys to the seat by his side. His crippled brother sat on his other side and Sansa sat next to him. Her eyes scanned over the room but Sandor couldn’t tell who or what she was looking for.

“I’d best go up there before they send out a search party,” Arya said, throwing her leg over the bench. Sandor gripped her gently by the forearm.

“Your sister,” he said, tossing his head in Sansa’s direction. “What I’ve heard about her and that Bolton bastard - it’s all true?”

Arya grimaced and stared at him with hate in her eyes. That was fine. He knew it wasn’t him that she hated.

“She hasn’t fully told us what happened but we’re not idiots. We know. And she’s different now.”

“Different how?”

Arya tossed her head in Sansa’s direction too. “You watch her. You’ll work it out. Or maybe she’ll tell you.”

Sandor bit his bottom lip and thought of all of the ways he would have liked to kill Bolton. Death by savage mongrels was one thing, but what he could have done to avenge the pain caused to the Little Bird…

As Arya stood to leave, Sandor asked another thing that had been playing on his mind. “Littlefinger?”

She smiled and drew her finger across her throat.

“Good,” he said, fully aware of how his face was transforming into a snarl as he thought of that perfumed cocksucker. “I didn’t know he was on your list.”

“He wasn’t,” Arya said as she stepped away. “He was on Sansa’s.”


End file.
